Isobel stood behind Lily, close enough to catch the faint scent of shampoo clinging to the girl's braid, guiding her hand steady through the brushstrokes of a blazing sunset. The eighth-grader's wrist moved sure and easy, blending bold streaks of orange into the soft spill of pink like she'd been born knowing how to chase light across canvas.
The classroom hummed with quiet industry—desks pushed close, the faint scratch of brushes in water jars, the sun angling in through tall windows and catching on stray motes of chalk dust in the air. Three years at Townsend Elementary had sewn Isobel deep into this town's patchwork, the way a good quilt kept you warm in January. She loved this place, loved her post as K–12 art teacher the way some folks loved their first horse—steady, dependable, always giving something back. Today's medium was acrylics, her favorite for the way it held its ground—fast-drying but forgiving, bright enough to make even a stubborn sky sing.
A hand shot up from the far side, where Laurel sat bent over a half-finished landscape. Isobel crossed the worn floorboards, heels clicking softly, and leaned over the desk. The girl's scene spilled out in greens and golds, a river winding lazy as a roped calf through meadow grass.
"Is this how it's supposed to look, Miss Wright?" Laurel asked, cheeks flushed with the shy hope of someone who wanted the answer to be yes.
"Laurel," Isobel said, her voice low and warm as summer dusk, "it's beautiful. The way you've blended these colors—reminds me of the valley right before a storm." She let her fingertip trace the painted sky, careful not to smudge. "Here—let me show you something."
She picked up a fine brush, dipped it into a pale green, and laid down the gentlest strokes along a painted tree's edge. "See that? Brings it to life—like sunlight catching the leaves when the day's winding down."
Laurel's eyes lit up, her whole face shifting like a sky after the storm breaks. "Oh, I get it now. Thank you, Miss Wright."
Isobel gave her a warm nod, the kind that lingered like the last light on the ridge, before drifting back to the front of the room. The air smelled faintly of acrylic and the sweet tang of pencil shavings, a familiar perfume of her days here.
As the clock ticked toward the end of the period, she glanced at the slim silver watch on her wrist—a gift from her parents years back, its face scratched and worn in a way she liked. "Five minutes, y'all," she called, her voice calm but carrying over the scrape of chairs. "Let's clean up brushes and stations."
The room came alive with the quiet bustle of routine—paint caps twisting shut, water jars clouding green and gold, the muted clink of brushes against glass. When the bell finally rang, the sound was swallowed by the chatter and shuffle of boots and sneakers headed for the door.
"See you tomorrow, Miss Wright!"
"Thanks for the awesome lesson!"
The last wave of voices faded down the hall before the door swung wide again. Bella Rose strode in like she owned the place, braid swinging, eyes bright with whatever trouble she'd cooked up. "Ready for our next adventure?"
Isobel arched a brow, folding her arms loosely. "What's the plan now?"
"To Ryder's place," Rose said, grinning like she'd just drawn the winning bull in the short go. "He messaged me about Delilah and some round pen work tonight. Said we could swing by."
"He mentioned me?" The words slipped out before Isobel could think better of them, her curiosity sparking.
"He sure did," Rose said, her voice carrying a note that made it sound like more than casual.
Isobel let the thought hang for a heartbeat before her mouth curved into a bright smile. "Alright, count me in."
Bella Rose clapped her hands together, the sound sharp as a gate latch snapping shut. "Perfect. Let's go catch some breathtaking sunset vibes with Delilah and Ryder."
Ryder led Delilah into the round pen, the mare's chestnut coat catching the last of the sun like burnished copper. Her hooves whispered against the dry footing, each step sending a puff of dust curling into the warm evening air. Somewhere beyond the pasture fence, the low diesel growl of a truck cut across the quiet—foreign and familiar all at once. Ryder's head lifted, instinct sharpened from years of watching for trouble both in the ring and in boardrooms.
With the ease of a man who'd done this more times than he could count, he slipped the lead rope free, latched the gate, and started toward the sound. His stride was unhurried but sure, dust clinging to the frayed hems of his Wranglers.
"Evenin', ladies," he called, the smooth Tennessee drawl softened but edged with that faint Manhattan clip, a grin ghosting over his mouth like he knew something they didn't.
Bella Rose and Isobel turned toward him. For a moment, neither spoke—both caught in that lazy pull Ryder seemed to carry, like a campfire's heat you don't notice until you're leaning in too close. The worn jeans, the plain tee, the hat tipped just enough to throw his hazel eyes into shadow… all of it looked pure cowboy. But the quiet watchfulness behind his gaze hinted at a man who measured more than rodeo scores.
"Hey, Ryder," Bella Rose chirped, her tone as bright as a carnival call. "How's Delilah doin'?"
"Been a bit of a rollercoaster," he said, voice dipping low with a note of pride, "but she's comin' 'round. Just needs to trust me more."
Isobel's gaze lingered—on the way his hand had rested on the mare's neck earlier, on the calm in his voice that could steady a skittish horse or a crowded boardroom. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she looked away, focusing on a pebble at her feet.
Turning back to Bella Rose, Ryder added, "Gonna work on desensitizin' her to noise. Plastic bags, whips… hell, even gunfire if that's what it takes."
Bella Rose's grin widened, eyes alight. "Can't wait to see it."
"Come on, then," Ryder said, tilting his head toward the pen. His movements were fluid, deliberate—every step carrying the same quiet confidence as a rider easing into the chute.
As they rounded the barn, Isobel and Bella Rose caught sight of his house through the break in the trees. Tucked back in the grove, it looked like something grown from the land itself—broad porches and weathered beams—but up close, there were whispers of something sleeker. Glass catching the sunset. Lines too clean for an old ranch home. The kind of place that made you wonder just how much a man like Ryder was keeping to himself.